Little Women

Janet Baldey

Mary knew it always snowed at Christmas.  Even now, her fingertips tingled as she remembered scratching away at the ice crusting the inside of her window until there was a hole just big enough to peer through.  Pressing her face against its frostbitten surface, she’d stare up at the sky until she saw the first tiny flakes break away and float towards her.  Once they reached the ground, the delicate crystals seemed to disappear but Mary knew they were just in waiting, icy arms outstretched until their sisters joined them.  As soon they would, a multitude, swirling to earth, falling one upon the other until they smoothed the hard angles of the houses with a chilly blanket.

         For hours she’d crouch watching, her thin arms shielding her body against the draughts knifing through the rotting frames.  At last, stiff with cold and dazzled by the dancing snowflakes, she’d slip to the floor and lie, arms and legs outstretched, waiting for her sisters to join her.

         As soon they did.  Chattering and scolding, they flocked into her room and pulled her to her feet.

         “Foolish child.  ‘Tis mid-winter and you are wearing but a cotton shift.  When will you ever learn, you goose.”

         Beth rubbed her frozen limbs while Meg stripped off her tattered petticoat, her delicate fingers recoiling from the grimy rags.

         “Oh, my word.  How did you get to be so dirty.  And just look at your bruises.  I do declare, I have never known such a clumsy child.  Quickly, get the Arnica please, Amy.”

         The girls then turned their attention to the dismal room.  Jo put a match to the fire and slowly, the temperature rose as the flames chased ribbons of smoke up the chimney.  With much clattering and banging they hauled a tin bath to the front of the fire and soon silky water was floating away Mary’s grime and soothing her bruises.  Ignoring the hard rim of the bath, she lay back and closed her eyes.  As she relaxed, the chatter of her sisters faded.  She had lain like this before.  As now, water had lapped around her but then the warmth of the sun had been heavy on her eyelids and there had been the cry of seabirds circling above.  With a sudden swish, a curtain was drawn and the memory disappeared.  She was in the bath and the cries she heard were the sound of her sisters’ voices.

         “How thin Mary is.  I can count every one of her ribs.”

         “Marmee must make her some of her special broth.”

         Mary thought of her beloved Marmee.  She visualised her face with its curving smile and soft blue eyes wreathed in a network of laughter lines.  She was so lucky to have a mother like her.

         Because, some mothers weren’t like that.  Some mothers had faces that were scored by slashing lines and had eyes that glared; the eyes of wild beasts loosed from the jungle.

         Mary whimpered.  She took a deep breath and thought about Marmee again.  She remembered how soft Marmee’s hands felt as she brushed her hair, coaxing the golden curls into ringlets and drawing them back with a scarlet ribbon.

         But some mothers’ hands weren’t soft.  Some mothers had hands that were hard and when they were swung at you, they felt like wood.  These mothers hands didn’t smooth your hair, they grabbed it and pulled it in hanks from your head and your blood felt warm and sticky as it trickled down your forehead. 

         Mary jerked back her head and whimpered again, louder this time.  She opened her eyes to see her sisters crowding around her, concern plain upon their faces.

         “Don’t be sad Mary.  See, we have a pretty dress for you to wear.”

         Meg drew her forefinger across Mary’s cheeks, wiping away the tears and patting her face with a towel.

         “You realise it’s Christmas Eve, don’t you?  We’re going to have a feast and Jo has written a special story to read to us over dinner.”

         “But, best of all my dears…..”

         Marmee stood in the doorway, her faced was flushed and wisps of tawny hair escaped from beneath her bonnet.  She waved a slip of yellow paper like and mediaeval pennant and smiled at the group of girls.

         “……your father’s got leave.  He’s coming home for Christmas.”

         Her sisters shouted with delight and clapped their hands.  Mary stood up, water streaming down her body, her heart bursting with joy.  Father was coming home.  She saw him standing in front of her, his legs planted slightly apart as sturdy as oak trees, his teeth gleaming as he smiled.  She would dart towards him and bury her nose in his greatcoat, smelling his special aroma, a mix of tobacco and wood-smoke.  How safe she felt in the shelter of his arms.  How lucky she was to have a father like him.

         Because, some fathers didn’t smell of tobacco and wood-smoke.  Instead, they stank of beer, sweat and old dirt and they didn’t make you feel safe.  Instead, you listened with dread to the sound of wood creaking as they climbed the stairs. 

         This time, Mary didn’t whimper, she screamed.

***

         The scream erupted out of her mouth, causing heads to swivel in her direction.

         “Who’s that?”

         Betty jumped, almost dropping the syringe.  She let out her breath; the new Matron had crept up so quietly that the hairs on her neck prickled.

         “It’s Mary in bed five.  Poor soul, she’s having one of her turns again.  This’ll quieten her down.”

         Matron’s eyes narrowed.

         “Is she written up for that?”

         “No. Mary’s special.”

         “Nurse, you know the rules.  There are no exceptions.”

         Betty shook her head.  “She’ll not settle….”

         Another wail, jangled their nerves.  Matron turned and stalked down the ward.

         A grey straggle of Mary’s hair clung to the pillows as she whipped her head from side to side.  Her mouth opened and closed and with each lament she drew a ragged object closer to her.

         “This bed’s a mess.” Matron rapped, eyeing both it and the occupant with distaste. “And what’s that?”

         “It’s her book.”

         “Her book!  It’s disgusting.  And what’s she doing with a book?  I doubt if she can even read!”

         Betty’s face flamed but angry words clogged her throat as she watched Matron wrench the book out of Mary’s grasp.  Mary howled even louder and her arms rose as she clawed at the air.  The sound swept around the high-ceilinged room and echoed along the corridor until it reached a thick oak door.  The man on the other side raised his head, then threw down his pen.  Rising, he crossed over to a window and stared at the thick, yellow clouds oiling their way across the sky.  His lips pursed; it wasn’t snowing yet but it would be.  Mary was never wrong.  He wondered who was on duty.  He hoped it was Betty.  The gargling cries continued, dying, then rising in jagged spikes.  Dr. Palmer left his office, his footsteps quickening, as he strode down the corridor and entered the ward.

         “Is everything under control, Nurse?”

         At the sound of his voice Betty turned, relief varnishing her face.

         “Matron’s taken Mary’s book, doctor.  She says it’s unhygienic.”

         “Matron’s quite right, Nurse.  Excuse me, matron. One moment….”

         Gently, he retrieved the book.  Catching hold of one of Mary’s flailing arms, he pressed it into her hand.

         “Chlorpromazine please, nurse.  I’ll write it up myself, later.”

         Matron stood motionless; a grim stalagmite dressed in blue.  Dr Palmer looked at her.

         “Matron, we’ve not met before.  Let’s have coffee.”

         He turned and led the way to his office. 

         As the percolator bubbled, Dr Palmer cast covert glances at the woman.  He noticed how she sat, bolt upright as if wired to the chair.  He sighed, she looked tough; for Mary’s sake, he hoped she had a heart.  With a cup in each hand, he turned and with an effort, softened his expression.

         “I know exactly what you’re thinking Matron.  Bloody consultants.  They don’t have to carry the can for rising infection rates.  Yes, I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but you’re new here and there are things you can’t be expected to know.”

         He walked to a cabinet and drew out a bulging set of case notes, almost as tattered at Mary’s book.

         “If you could just look through these notes, I’d be grateful.  They’ll explain a lot.”

         Reluctantly, the woman started to flick through the pages with impatient fingers but as the seconds stretched into minutes, the rustle of paper slowed and her expression changed.  At last, she spoke.

         “These go back fifty years.”

         “That’s when I first met Mary.  I was a very new houseman.  It was a snowy Christmas Eve when they brought her in, very much as it is today.”

         They sat listening to the icy spatter of sleet against the windows.  Matron forced her attention back to the notes.  With growing unease, she realised they were bringing back memories she’d tried hard to forget.

         “It sounds as if she was in a bad way.”

         “Little more than skin stretched over bone and what flesh she had was black and blue.  X-rays taken later showed numerous healed and healing fractures.  She was barely alive and we didn’t hold out much hope but she clung on.”

         “What had happened.”

         “We never found out.  New tenants heard scratching noises coming from a seemingly deserted house next door.  They broke in to deal with what they thought were rats.  Instead, they found a pathetic mite between six and ten years old.  She was lying in a filthy room without heating or food.  The only thing she had was the book you saw tonight.  Did you notice its title?”

         Matron nodded; when she was a child it had been one of her favourites.

         “When she was well enough, we asked about her family.  Her answers threw us right off track.  She said her name was Mary March and she lived with her mother and four sisters but neither the police nor social services could find any trace of them.  It was a while before the penny dropped – Mary had retreated into fantasy; it was her way of coping.  In her mind, she was a member of that idyllic family depicted in the only book she owned.”

         Trying to ignore the ice settling around her heart, Matron looked at the notes again. 

         “There’s a gap here, of about six years….”

         “Yes.  As soon as she was well enough, she was discharged to a foster home.  She went to live with a couple who lived on the coast.  They grew very fond of her and she loved living near the sea.  Everything seemed to be turning out fine.”  He swallowed.  “When she was fourteen, she was struck down by a massive stroke.  A blood clot, the legacy of too many beatings we guessed, had broken away and found its way to her brain.  She’s been here ever since and will be, until she dies.”

         Matron glanced up and saw the look on his face.  She felt herself shrivel as she read his mind.  He thought she was unfeeling, but he was wrong.  The truth was, she and Mary had more in common than he would ever know.  Her mouth opened but then closed, knowing there was a barrier between them that nothing could breach.  She got up but just before she left the room, she turned and looked directly at him.

         “There is no reason for you to worry doctor.”  Without another word, she left the room.

***

         That night, just before she went off duty, she visited Mary again.  The skies had cleared and the bed was bathed in moonlight.  As she looked at the sleeping woman, her stomach churned as she remembered the silent, empty days of her own childhood.  There had been no violence, but she bore witness that beating was not the only way to destroy a child.

         On an impulse, she bent and kissed Mary’s withered cheek and whispered.

         “Give my love to your family, my dear.”

         Mary stirred and smiled in her sleep.  Tomorrow they would go skating on the lake with Laurie and in the evening she and her dear sisters would decorate the tree.

Copyright Janet Baldey